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Skull at Galgotha

The day was cold. Rain had poured down soaking the ground. The river was flooding, water rushing over the jagged rocks and forcing its way south.

On the bank stands a Man. He looks up to the sky, whispers a few words, and takes a seat under the only tree. A large tree, a tree with arms reaching to heaven. Strong arms, arms filled with lush leaves and a trunk that can stand any storm.

The sun begins to peek through the dark gray clouds. Sighing heavily the Man stands. He takes a few steps toward the raging river. He lifts one foot and slowly places his toes in the water.

He hears the sound of horses hooves drawing near. Louder and louder they come. Turning slightly His lips quirk at the corners. He knows who is approaching and why they are coming.

The horses stop near by. Men in their soldier gear dismount and approach. One man points his finger toward the Man by the river and yells, “That’s Him!”

The soldiers quickly walk toward Him and grab Him. But one of the men in the group is the Man’s friend and quickly draws his sword. He swings at the soldier and misses his target lopping off a part of his ear. “Oh rats! I’ll get’cha this time” the friend thinks.

The friend raises his sword and takes aim.

The Man chastises him.

He lowers his sword and takes a step back.

The Man places His hand over the bleeding ear of the soldier, healing it.

A few questions are asked and the soldiers lead the Man away.

The hill is high. The skull carved in the rock beneath the three crosses is a testimony of the evil that is taking place. The Man hangs limply, nailed to the Cross. His strength is gone. Blood pours from His wounds. Slowly lifting His head a mere inch from His chest He asks His Father to “forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

The blood drips, water oozes from His side, pain sears through His body and weakly sucking in a breath His last labored words set the world on edge…